


diastolic pressure (in between heartbeats)

by firebrands



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Dates, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: For flame, who gave the prompt "Steve and Tony have been fake dating for a while, but everyone else thinks they're *really* in love. When a mission goes terribly and Tony is presumed dead, Steve realizes he's in love with Tony and Dramatic Shenanigans Ensue."
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 36
Kudos: 528
Collections: Stony Loves Steve 2020





	diastolic pressure (in between heartbeats)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/gifts).



> it was a challenge to write this because i kinda get too in my head about the believability of fake dating (i don't know why, either) but i'm happy with the final product. i hope you enjoy reading! :)
> 
> a big thank you to [peach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohjustpeachy/pseuds/ohjustpeachy) for cheer reading! and much praise and thanks to [stella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoctoraday/pseuds/adoctoraday) and Desdaemona for beta reading. :)

It’s been two weeks. In the haze of the firefight, Steve had lost sight of Tony, who had flown off with the president’s wife. Steve was busy protecting the President and everyone else in the room, and then the team had arrived.

The president’s wife was found a few miles away. Through her tears she told him that they’d taken Iron Man—the confession like a bomb dropping into his lap, and then he was on the ground with her.

“We’ll find him, ma’am,” Steve said to her, sounding a lot more confident than he felt.

It’s been two weeks and Steve has barely slept, kept a silent vigil with JARVIS, driven half-insane with worry.

“He’s worth more to them alive,” Natasha said, hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

But they haven’t. They should be better at this. Steve paces around Tony’s workshop, Dum-E following him as he goes.

“We’ll find him,” Steve says, patting the robot on the head. It’s funny, how he’s trying to comfort a robot.

It should be funny.

So why is he crying?

A box is left at the entrance of the tower, unmarked. The man who left it had covered enough of his face to make JARVIS have to work at finding him.

“What is it?” Bruce asks, wringing his hands as JARVIS scans the package before they open it.

“I believe it is a miniature ARC reactor,” JARVIS says, and Steve registers how the voice is devoid of emotion before he grabs the box and tears into it.

Inside, surrounded by foam peanuts, is the reactor. Cracked down the middle.

Steve picks it up with shaking hands.

“No,” he says, quietly. Natasha stands to his side, and Steve can tell she wants to examine it for herself, too.

“This—no,” Steve says again, turning it over in his hands.

Bruce digs through the box, then dumps its contents onto Tony’s workbench and Steve curls his finger around it, grips it so tightly he can feel the casing begin to give.

Natasha takes it from him.

“We’re going to find him,” she says fiercely, grabbing Steve’s chin and forcing him to look at her. “Okay Steve?”

“Okay,” Steve says. It doesn’t make sense, why is Natasha acting like he’s more worried than her? They’re all worried. He’s fine, actually, _really_ , he’s _fine_.

He moves without thinking, out of Tony’s workshop, up to his room. He’s numb as he wraps his hands, walks to the gym. It’s like there’s a faint buzzing in his ears. It’s enough of a distraction to keep him occupied.

He only stops when Thor rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s have some supper,” he says, and hands Steve a towel for the blood on his hands.

* * *

Every night he dreams of that afternoon. Looking in Tony’s eyes, the crooked smile on his lips.

“You okay?” He asks.

Sometimes, Steve tells him the truth:

“No, I’m not okay.”

“Why not?”

“I’m worried about what’ll happen between us, when this weekend is over.”

“Do you want anything to happen?” Tony asks, because even in his subconscious, he knows Tony won’t make it an easy conversation.

“I do,” Steve admits, because in his dreams he’s braver than he is in real life.

“Good,” Tony says, smile lighting up his whole face. “I do too.”

Sometimes, Steve plays back everything that happened, the truth of it. How he never got to say what he wanted to out loud. But in those dreams Steve doesn’t lose sight of Tony. Then, in those dreams, he lifts up the face plate and says, “I got you,” and Tony smiles and says, “that you do, soldier.”

Sometimes, and these are the ones he likes best, he leans over in the three minutes allotted to them and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s lips.

* * *

* * *

It starts, as all risky and inevitably painful things do in Avengers Tower, with a bet.

“20 bucks says Tony breaks first,” Clint laughs, hands tucked behind his head as he leans back in his chair.

“Hey—!!”

“Put me in for 50, but Steve.”

“Nat, you—“

Bruce huffs out a laugh. “100, two weeks, Tony first”

“ _Bruce_ —”

“I would like to place a bet of a whole tankard of Asgardian mead, that says Steven will break within five days,” Thor says, puffing out his chest and grinning sunnily at everyone.

Steve buries his face in his hands.

“Okay boys, all bets are in,” Natasha says, finishing up her scribbling on a piece of paper with a flourish.

In front of them, Fury rolls his eyes, but the small smirk on his lips betrays him.

“I want you to know that effective immediately, I am turning you all out of house and home,” Tony says, standing up and looking down at all of them imperiously.

“Really? Even _Steve_?” Clint says, in a tone reserved for playground mockery.

“Enough,” Steve says, and at that, Tony deflates slightly.

“As I was saying,” Fury says, “Both of you will run this operation. It’s a long game, and you’ve got to keep the public convinced that it’s all genuine. We need you in that cabin in three months.”

Behind him, Tony makes an annoyed sound. “What, did you draw our names out of a hat?” he asks.

“Steve’s antique helmet, actually,” Fury says dryly. “But yes.”

“Well, if the President needs us—” Steve starts.

“Doesn’t he have the secret service for this? Deep cover shit or whatever?” Tony continues, beginning to pace. “Come on Bazooka Joe, I’ve got better things to do.”

“Better than—” Clint starts, but Natasha knocks him on the side of the head.

Fury raises an eyebrow and stares Tony down. “I don’t recall having to explain things to you, Stark,” he says.

Steve sighs. By all accounts, this isn’t the worst thing he’s had to do for an op. Pretending to be in a relationship isn’t exactly rocket science, but the idea of having to pretend with _Tony_ is where Steve found himself at a loss. Not that it would be any easier with anyone else (Clint would be horrendous; Bruce would be sweet, maybe, if not a little awkward; Natasha would be frighteningly efficient about it, which isn’t such a bad thing; and Thor, well—that sounded like fun) but with Tony…. They didn’t have such a great start, and the next thing Steve knew Tony was zooming into and then falling out of wormholes and now here they are.

Suffice to say, they haven’t had much time to talk, least of all get to know each other. Still, it strikes Steve as a calculated move on Tony’s end; Tony, who insists on flash and pizazz. It makes Steve wonder if anyone has really ever gotten to know Tony.

“A couples retreat,” Tony mutters to himself, standing by the elevators and waiting.

“Are they really so strict about it?” Steve asks.

Tony looks over his shoulder and regards Steve for a moment, then his eyes flick to the rest of the team, behind Steve and catching up to them.

“How do you feel about proving them wrong?” Tony asks, smirking.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t like schemes.”

Tony frowns, furrowing his eyebrow at Steve, and Steve winks at him just as the rest of the team arrives.

Tony’s frown shifts to a small smile of understanding. It’s heartening. Steve thinks it’s a good start.

Then Tony shows up in the communal kitchen, two hours later, and dumps a sheaf of papers in front of Steve, right beside his oatmeal.

“What—“ Steve starts, then looks down at the paper. “Is this a list,” he says hesitantly. It’s not really a question, but an opening for Tony to explain himself.

“I thought you liked plans, and it isn’t my first rodeo so I decided to come up with one,” Tony says, grinning as he slides himself onto the dining table. He looks down at Steve above the frame of his tinted glasses expectantly.

“Well, it is mine,” Steve says, frowning.

“I’m open to negotiation,” Tony says.

“Oh, are you? I thought everyone did everything you wanted around here,” Steve says, annoyed by how calm Tony looks.

“Nah,” Tony says blithely. “That’s more your speed.”

Steve levels Tony with a look, but doesn’t say anything else. He breathes out slowly through his nose and flips through it. It starts with how often they should be seen together in public, then the slow escalation of closeness they should display.

“Kissing,” Steve says, putting down the paper and looking up at Tony.

“Of course!” Tony chirps. “We can’t just be holding hands. This is _me_ , after all.”

Steve frowns. He’s never kissed anyone, not since Peggy, and that was literally a lifetime ago. And now, well. He hasn’t exactly had the time to go galavanting around. He frowns some more.

“Chin up, buttercup,” Tony says, sliding his hand under Steve’s chin and tipping his head up so Tony can smile at him. “We can practice, if you want.”

“I—what?” Steve says, shaking away Tony’s hand and fighting down a blush. This is stupid. He should talk to Fury.

Tony sighs, loud and dramatic, like it pains him to have to talk about this, as if it’s so _simple._ “You’re too tense. No one’s going to believe us.”

“Well maybe they’d be right!” Steve snaps, at the end of his rope. He’s never been comfortable with things like this, romance and dating and—and _kissing_ —it was more up Bucky’s alley. It really wouldn’t be believable for Steve to suddenly up and walk around with Tony, who _is_ the kind of person to galavant around and kiss people and make them fall in love with them and—Steve stands up, trying to stop himself from spiraling further.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Steve says, dumping his bowl into the sink and walking out the room.

“Hey, wait,” Tony says, jogging a little to catch up to him. He stands in front of the elevator, blocking Steve’s path. “Look. We’ll go slow, okay?”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. He can’t pinpoint why he feels so touchy about this, hates himself for not being able to meet Tony’s gaze, hates himself for wanting to, for being just a little bit curious. Steve stills, then comes back to himself.

Well. That was a new thought.

Then again, it’s not like Steve is blind, he knows what a looker is when he sees one, and Tony’s top tier in that department. He’s suave, charismatic, enticing in a way that makes Steve pay attention. Steve huffs. “I’ve never dated anyone,” he admits, still looking away, eyes fixed on a new batch of flowers set on a side table in the living room.

Tony makes an annoyed sound. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “So let me teach you.”

Steve wants to object to that—how could Tony know? But then again, it proves that it really is quite obvious then, so. “Fine,” he says, as he takes the papers that Tony brought along with him.

Tony beams. “Well, I’m free now, wanna start practicing?”

Steve freezes up. “Here?”

“Well, the team’ll have to see it anyway,” Tony says, smile morphing into a smirk.

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs. “Well, Tony, how about you buy me dinner first?”

Tony laughs. “Knew you wouldn’t be easy.”

* * *

Their first date really is dinner; a small modern Japanese restaurant in Midtown. It’s not too flashy, and Steve fumbles with his chopsticks for a second before Tony reaches over and adjusts his grip.

“What are we supposed to talk about?” Steve asks, smoothing down the napkin over his lap, feeling a little out of sorts.

“Well, anything, really,” Tony says, and for the first time, he looks a little confused. It’s a new look, and Steve’s oddly charmed by it. “It’s not like we’re being recorded or anything.”

“Right,” Steve says, suddenly embarrassed. He tries to think of something else to say but his brain fails to supply anything else. He tries not to feel like this is already a disaster.

“Easy,” Tony says, patting Steve’s hand. “Wanna talk about—oh, I don’t know, what do you like doing when we’re not on missions?”

Steve bites his lip. This shouldn’t be a difficult question to answer, but everything he can think of sounds boring. “Well, what do you like to do?” Steve asks, instead.

Tony huffs out a small laugh. “Good one,” he says, leaning back onto the chair. He drums his fingers on the table, and Steve inexplicably misses the warmth of Tony’s hand.

“Building stuff, I guess?” Tony says, then laughs, a real one, this time. “Jesus, this shouldn’t be so hard, Cap. Stop looking at me like I’m a target.”

Steve laughs with him, the bundle of nerves in his gut relaxing at the knowledge that he isn’t alone in his awkwardness.

“Tell me about…” Steve pauses, thinking. “About the last thing you built.”

“That wasn’t the suit?”

“Oh, no, that. Tell me about the suit!” Steve says, leaning forward. He’s never really learned much about it, other than the dossier he was handed all those months ago. Thankfully, this gets the conversation going: Tony talks about the latest upgrades, about aerodynamics, the repulsors. He lights up when he talks, and Steve can’t help grinning and nodding along as he listens. It’s a different side of Tony, and Steve can’t help but feel his heart swell, knowing that tonight, he’s seen two new parts of Tony.

* * *

They only have three months to get their cover established, so they go on dates almost weekly. On their second date—a leisurely stroll in Central Park, Tony had leaned over and wiped some ice cream off Steve’s chin.

There’s a photo of the exact moment, and the ones that follow. Steve tries not to feel too mortified when he sees it in the tabloids: Steve had ducked his chin down, mumbled thanks, and tried to fight down a blush. Evidently, he’d failed. A stray thought floated into his mind as he studied the photos. _We look nice together._

It was a few dates later—a science fair that Stark Industries had sponsored—when Steve had taken a deep breath and clasped Tony’s hand in his. Previously, he’d never understood the appeal, but the smile Tony had on his face made it all make sense. Steve smiled back, tucked Tony’s hand into the crook of his elbow, and felt something funny, like this would be the perfect time to lean down and kiss Tony—but that wasn’t in the plan. There’s a photo of them, grainy from a phone camera, smiling at each other like they weren’t surrounded by sweaty teenagers. “I think we broke the internet,” Tony said gleefully, showing Steve the photo on his phone. Steve smiled at Tony, and felt that funny feeling again, and they were totally alone, so he didn’t pay it any mind.

The nice thing—the _great_ thing—about going on dates with Tony is how surprisingly pleasant their conversations were. After the initial awkwardness of their first, Steve had made an effort to open up, too. He talked about drawing, art, and music.

Tony had balked at his taste, laughed and made him a playlist. Steve had tried to listen, but it was too loud. “You really are an old man,” Tony said, laughing as Steve tried to explain his distaste.

So Steve was surprised to find that for their next date, Tony had bought tickets to a concert. Ella Fitzgerald Appreciation Night. Steve wore a suit, held Tony’s hand throughout the two hours they sat beside each other, and on the steps of the concert hall, murmured, “thanks, Tony,” and kissed him on the cheek. It was worth it just to learn how pink Tony‘s cheeks could get.

* * *

“Okay, so,” Tony says, flopping beside Steve on the couch unceremoniously. “Kissing time.”

“Excuse me?” Steve says, nearly dropping his bowl of ice cream.

Tony shifts so he’s fully facing Steve, then puckers his lips. “Kissing time,” he says again, like that explains everything.

“I—no!” Steve says, standing up. “Not _here_ , for crying out loud.”

That’s how they end up in Steve’s room, and Steve fidgets, discomfited under Tony’s gaze.

Tony sighs. “Look. It’s what’s in the plan!” He points at the paper, a bit rumpled now. He’s very helpfully highlighted the words: _**Kissing time**_.

It falls right after: _**Mission objective—subject yourselves to the mortifying ordeal of being known**_ , or the time that he and Tony had sat down and gone through (in excruciating detail) their story for the couple’s retreat counselors who would be interviewing them separately for admission. It was an exhausting conversation, but Steve had broken down their main agreements succinctly. On the margins of the page were his notes:

  * We’re here for more time alone, because it’s hard to get as Avengers
  * First fight - what movie to watch (S: Top Hat. T: The Social Network.)
  * First real fight - Mission. Classified.
  * First date - Ooma
  * First kiss was in the tower. (Classified?)
  * We have talked about marriage (Not any time soon)
  * Our team is very supportive of our relationship :-)



Steve’s head heats up just thinking about the conversation, of how clinical it was. But maybe that’s the best way to approach this current step.

Steve lets out a deep sigh.

“Fine, let’s do it,” he says.

“Christ, Steve, it’s a kiss, not the firing squad.”

Steve clenches his jaw. He can’t pinpoint why he’s so anxious, which makes him feel more anxious, a constant feedback loop of worry that stutters to a stop when Tony touches his hand gently.

“Hey,” Tony says softly. “We can put it off for a while longer if you want.”

“No,” Steve says, and he’s shocked by how immediate his response is. “No we can’t,” he amends, because they really can’t—they have about a month and a half left. It’d be suspicious if they weren’t kissing in public.

Tony frowns. “You sure?”

“Yeah, let’s get it over with,” Steve bites out, and just as the words are out of his lips, he wants to stuff them back in, because for the briefest moment, hurt flashes across Tony’s face.

“No that’s—I just mean—”

“Way to set the mood, Cap,” Tony cuts him off easily, a grin on his lips that doesn’t meet his eyes.

Frustration explodes inside Steve, and all at once he’s so mad at himself for being so awful with words. He wants to backtrack to how they were right before this happened. He’s so focused on thinking of how to fix this that he isn’t really thinking when he pulls Tony close, wanting nothing more than to take that look off Tony’s face.

So just like that, they’re kissing. It’s a very stiff kiss, not that Steve has much experience to go by, but they’re holding themselves away from each other and their lips are just pressed together, unmoving.

Steve pulls away, shocked by himself, and a little embarrassed.

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Tony laughs, and Steve laughs, a mix of confusion and hysteria. Tony leans forward and buries his face against Steve’s chest, and they’re both shaking with it, Steve laughing because Tony is.

He tilts Tony’s head up, wanting to see Tony’s face, scrunched up with sheer delight. Tony follows the movement, then he leans forward and kisses Steve again, and this—this is much better.

Tony pulls Steve close, parts his lips open, and Steve loses himself in the warmth of it, the surprising intimacy of a mouth against his; he breathes in as Tony breathes out, moving his lips, sliding his tongue along Tony’s, it’s electric, it drives Steve wild.

The part only to suck in a few breaths before diving back in, and Steve isn’t thinking of anything other than the desperate, primal need for closeness; he rests his hands on Tony’s hips then slides them down to his ass, then to just behind his thighs, lifting him up to sit on his lap and Tony makes a broken sound at being lifted, but Steve swallows it down, and this, this, _this_ , this is what kissing is.

They pull away and the look Tony gives him is a mix of crazed and overwhelmed, and Tony breathes out, “Holy fuck.” Then, resting his hands on Steve’s shoulders, adds: “Who the fuck taught you how to do _that_.”

Steve leans back on the couch, hands on Tony’s waist. He smirks, lopsided. “I’m a quick study.”

* * *

After that afternoon spent in Steve’s room, getting intimately acquainted with each others’ lips, it’s like a dam breaks between them. Steve feels, in a strange way, liberated; he can do anything to Tony, now, pull him close and press a kiss to his lips, sidle up and wrap an arm around Tony’s waist. It’s all so frighteningly normal, their bodies slotting into each other, like all is right in the world.

Of course, it makes sense; what else was all the foreplay for if not for them to finally feel comfortable touching each other like this? Really, they’re selling it so well that during one movie night, two months in, Clint looks annoyed when Steve drapes his arm over Tony’s shoulders.

“How’s the bet going?” Steve asks, smirking.

Tony perks up at this. “Yeah, how _is_ that going?”

“Ugh,” Clint says emphatically.

“They started hedging bets,” Natasha supplies, eyes on the screen. “You were getting along too well.”

“I feel like we should have a stake in this pool,” Tony says, then turns to Steve. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right,” Steve murmurs, smiling a little. He can tell everyone’s watching, so he leans close and presses a quick kiss to Tony’s lips.

“UGH,” Clint says again, then throws a pillow at them. “You’re going to bleed me dry with shit like that.”

“Cry me a river, Hunger Games,” Tony grins, pushing himself up from the sofa to kiss Steve.

It sends a thrill through Steve, this sudden openness, but he’s quick to tamp it down. It’s all practice, anyway. Still, it’s nice to have Tony this close, a constant warm body, kissing and holding hands. Steve tries to live in the moment instead of worrying about what this could all mean. He’s good at that.

* * *

Their next date has them arriving together at a Maria Stark Foundation gala. At this point it’s old hat to see them together. Still, the media do shout over the din of camera shutter clicks: “Are you an item?” “How long have you been dating?”

Steve smiles, one arm around Tony’s waist and the other resting squarely on Tony’s stomach as they pose for a photo. He turns and looks at Tony, smiling still, and Tony looks back at him, eyebrows lifted in an unspoken question. Then Steve leans forward, presses gently against Tony’s stomach until he’s leaning back, and Steve presses a kiss to his lips, and it feels so _natural_ , so normal after all the kisses they’d shared in the tower, that Steve doesn’t even register the noise from the reporters.

Steve slowly pulls up, helping Tony along, and they walk hand in hand into the Met.

“You dip kissed me,” Tony whispers to him, sounding awed.

Steve feels confident, brave, like nothing could go wrong tonight, and winks in response.

A little less than an hour later, Tony stands beside him, holding his phone. “Steve,” he says, his tone verging on laughter. “I think we really did break the internet this time.”

* * *

Maria Hill organizes the interview. It’s almost three months since they’ve started this charade, and the last push for credibility is an interview—a tell-all, of sorts.

The interview is held in the balcony adjacent to the helipad, and Steve and the reporter sit down just as Tony arrives with his usual panache, the automated arms of the landing port disassembling the suit as Tony walks towards them. Steve doesn’t hold back on the fond eye roll, and bites back a smile when he sees the reporter take note of his reaction.

“Darling,” Tony says, leaning down to press a quick kiss on Steve’s lips. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Not that you ever care,” Steve laughs, pulling a chair closer to him for Tony to sit on.

Tony grins, taking the seat and turning to the reporter. “Peter, is it?”

“Yes,” the man says, straightening up in his seat. “Thank you for making the time, Mr. Stark, Mr. Rogers. We know it’s very precious.”

“Oh, quite,” Tony says, loftily. “I’m doing this instead of ravishing my dear boyfriend.”

The flush that rises to Steve’s cheeks is natural, unbidden. Sure, it’s one of embarrassment, but it’s only because he has thought of it, and that Tony brings it up so casually makes those thoughts take shape in his mind.

Peter laughs, a small, nervous thing. “All the more to be grateful to you both, then,” he says. “Mind if I start recording?”

The interview goes well; they’d reviewed their notes prior, and Maria had sent them a packet with all the key phrases they needed to say to ensure maximum believability. All in all, it’s a cakewalk. Tony would be loath to admit it, Steve knows, but Fury was right to have them start on this early, to really build it up.

At one point during the interview, Tony rests his hand on Steve’s knee. Steve immediately responds by taking Tony’s hand in his, and Tony turns to him, a small smile on his face.

Strangely, it has the opposite effect. Somehow, Steve feels like a dancing monkey again.

The feeling takes him by surprise, because for a brief moment just then, he’d forgotten that all of this was for show. Now, in front of a reporter, he’s reminded to keep up the act, when over the past few weeks, he hadn’t pretended. Not really. Anxiety settles in his stomach, uncomfortable and worrisome.

He thinks back to the last time he’d taken a walk around town, how he’d seen a first edition of _Dune_ on display and thought, _oh, Tony might like that_. What a concept it was, that he’d gleaned Tony’s tastes.

Despite that, Steve still felt like Tony was a puzzle he hadn’t solved. Tony, who easily draped himself over Steve, pressed soft kisses to his cheek. The same Tony who, after all this, barely met Steve’s eyes when they were alone. Sure, on dates he was the same, bright smiles and easy conversation, but as soon as they were back in the tower he’d step away in a way that Steve felt Tony hoped wasn’t obvious.

And now he’s playing the part, as he should be. Not that Steve thinks Tony has lied—just that, possibly, this isn’t the whole truth. It’s not like Steve can categorically say that it is.

Still, Tony’s hand in his is warm, solid, and a reminder that despite everything, at least he has his small, physical comfort.

Steve smiles up at Tony as he answers Peter’s questions, and Tony turns to Steve, briefly, tilting his head in question.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Steve says, and then, feeling like he has to make up for his silence, he lifts Tony’s hand to his lips and kisses Tony’s knuckles.

It seems to punch the air out of Tony. “See?” Tony says, regrouping and brushing it off with a laugh. “He’s enamored.”

Steve bites his lip, turns back to look at Peter. “What can I say,” he says, honest for the first time in months. “He’s right.”

* * *

The interview with the counselors of the couples retreat goes the same; thankfully all their planning was worth it, and Steve answers the questions without second thought. Tony must have done the same, because now they’re standing outside a large wooden cabin along Lake Placid.

“Well, we did it,” Tony says, laughing a little.

“Now we just have to make sure the President stays alive,” Steve says, hefting his weekend bag over his shoulder.

Tony snorts. “Should be easy peasy, after everything we had to do to get here.”

“Hope so,” Steve says blandly, and walks up to the front door. He’s not doing it on purpose, this distancing. But beyond that, Steve can’t say—or maybe won’t. He doesn’t want to look at the emotions roiling inside him; hasn’t wanted to since they had their interview. He’s pretty sure Tony hasn’t noticed, but if he has, he hasn’t said anything about it. Which makes sense, there’s no reason for them to be closer; this weekend is the last stretch, and they’ll be focusing more on identifying potential threats, anyway.

And it’s not like—it’s not like anything could happen, Steve reasons. He still can’t say he’s really figured Tony out. It’s worrisome to consider what could happen if he’s found out, because against all odds, he and Tony do get along. He doesn’t want to go back to the time when they were just a step above strangers.

Tony sighs when he opens the door. Steve looks over Tony’s shoulder and mirrors his sigh.

Of course there’s only one bed. They should have expected this.

“Well,” Tony says, stepping inside the room. “I’m choosing this side.”

“Okay,” Steve says, putting his bag down. He hears Tony sit down on the bed.

“I can’t wait until this is over,” Tony says, laughing a little.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Steve takes a second to center himself, think of something to say.

“Yup,” he says. He doesn’t turn to face Tony. He’s not even doing anything, just holding his bag over the dresser drawers, and Tony is silent.

“Want to find something to eat?” Tony asks, and Steve hears him walking towards the door.

“You can go ahead.”

“Suit yourself.”

Over lunch, they introduce themselves. The President is there with his wife, and Steve and Tony shake his hand. Of course Tony’s met him before, probably even donated to his campaign. They sit beside each other and make small talk; Steve leaves them to it.

Their first session is after lunch. They’re given a packet, and the page reads:

**DAY 1: COMMUNICATION**

Beside him, Tony snorts.

The counselor, Janet, discusses the importance of establishing clear lines of communication, of fostering a relationship that is open to discussions and disagreements. Tony bumps his shoulder against Steve’s, as if to say, _get a load of that hunk of shit_ , and Steve has to agree, huffing out a small laugh.

The next three hours are spent talking amongst one another about what that means for them in their respective relationships. They’re all seated a few feet away from each other, giving them a sense of privacy. It’s not hard for Steve to pick up what they’re all saying to one another over the low buzz of conversation.

“I’m already bored,” Tony says, stretching his legs out.

“We have to look like we’re having a meaningful conversation,” Steve says, glancing around. By the door, Janet is watching them, evaluating.

“Fine,” Tony says, steepling his fingers over his stomach. “Tell me, Steve. How can we make our relationship more open to communication?”

Steve smiles, lips pinched together. “I don’t know, Tony. Why don’t you start?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Flip the question around.”

“I figure you have more experience.”

“Bad ones, all of them,” Tony says, and Steve knows it’s true. He’s about to say, _you’re right. We both don’t know what we’re doing, do we?_ but instead, someone in the room sniffles, and the conversations all stop.

In his chair, seated across from his wife, the President of the United States is weeping.

Steve buries his face in his hands.

Going to sleep that night is an awkward affair. For all their touching and pretend sweetness, they’ve never had to sleep beside each other.

Steve tries not to stare at Tony as he emerges from the bathroom, freshly bathed and wearing pajamas that sling low on his hips.

“Lend me your shirt,” Tony says, palm out.

“Why?”

“Because it’ll look better when we go down for breakfast and I’m wearing something of yours,” Tony says, and Steve wants to argue because he’s only packed enough clothes for the trip, but he knows too that Tony’s right.

It’s annoying when Tony’s right.

Steve sighs.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I should—something of yours?” Steve tries, feeling out of his depth. He digs into his bag and tosses a shirt at Tony, who slips it on. It’s a bit big on his shoulders, and it takes Steve’s breath away. Stupid, how something so simple could elicit such a reaction, but that’s been the case since they first started this whole charade. It awakens something in Steve, something primal and possessive that makes him want to pull Tony close, kiss him, cover Tony’s body with his—

Steve’s train of thought is interrupted by Tony moving to stand in front of him, sleeveless shirt in hand. “Something tells me this won’t fit you,” Tony says, holding it up against Steve’s chest.

“No,” Steve says, assessing and casting all his thoughts aside. “Maybe not.”

Tony laughs, and Steve joins him. After that, settling into bed beside each other doesn’t seem so daunting.

Steve turns off the lights and lies down beside Tony, whose face is half-illuminated by his bedside table lamp. Steve looks at him, and all the feelings from earlier come rushing back as he notices the way the shirt collar is too loose on him, how his waves are looser now that they’re not slicked up with product.

Tony quirks his lips up at Steve, a silent question over being observed.

“Do you want to give it a shot?” Steve asks, barely able to believe that he’s said those words out loud by the time they’re out of his mouth.

Tony’s smile widens, and it should be frightening, how easily he understands what Steve means without Steve having to explain further. Instead, Steve feels relief at how he's understood. “What, being honest?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says, shrugging a little. He curls his hand into a fist, fighting against the sudden urge to reach over, cup Tony’s jaw, pull him close.

Tony huffs out a laugh then reaches over Steve and flicks off the lamp. “Good night, Steve.”

Steve pushes a laugh out of his chest, trying to play it off, to take Tony’s out. It sounds fake, even to his own ears. He turns away from Tony, lies flat on the bed, and tries to quiet his thoughts so he can fall asleep.

It’s probably something ingrained in him from the army, the way he sleeps in only one position, so it’s nothing new to blink away sleep from his eyes and have the ceiling as his first sight of the morning.

What is new is the body draped over him. Steve tries not to stiffen or shift, instead looking down a little to see Tony’s head tucked under his chin, arm across Steve’s chest. He’s snoring lightly.

Steve’s heart swells so quickly it feels like it shatters in the same moment.

He breathes out slowly, trying not to wake Tony. It feels nice, the warmth of him, the solid weight like a blanket. He considers lifting Tony’s arm away, tucking him back into a position that’s less embarrassing, but at that moment, Tony huffs out a breath, buries his face deeper against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve blushes.

It’s easy, then, to just fall back asleep.

When he wakes up again, Tony’s already sitting up on his side of the bed, thumbing through his phone.

* * *

The next session is about romance, which strikes Steve as a cosmic joke, at this point.

Janet lays some ground rules, and they spend three minutes holding each other’s hands and gazing in each other’s eyes.

“There’s a theory that locking eyes for this long makes you fall in love—this time, we hope you’ll fall in love again with one another,” Janet says, walking around the room as everyone shifts in their seats. It’s comforting, seeing that all the other couples aren’t too keen on this activity.

“Everyone ready?” Janet asks, standing beside him and Tony. “I’m going to ring this bell when three minutes are up. I’d like to ask you to keep conversation to a minimum during this time.”

The room seems to take a collective breath.

“You okay?” Tony whispers.

“Yeah,” Steve lies.

It’s discomfiting, to be looking at Tony like this. Mostly because at this point it’s harder to pretend that he isn’t in love.

Tony, meanwhile, is looking at him like he hung the sun; there’s a soft smile on his lip, and the emotion is clear in his face. Adoration, fondness.

Steve has to remember not to flex his hand, currently holding Tony’s. There’s nothing he can do to ground himself, to force himself to remember that this is an act.

“I love you,” Tony says, smiling.

Steve blinks. He can’t look away, can’t draw attention to himself. But he can’t do anything else, either. No one’s said that to him before, and the full force hits Steve like a punch to the gut. He wants to say it back, because he means it. The realization makes him want to bolt out of the room.

He feels a little guilty, wishing that someone would just try and assassinate the president already.

He feels someone else’s gaze on him and in his periphery sees that Janet has come back to stand beside them after walking around the room.

Tony taps his finger against Steve’s wrist.

“I love you too,” Steve whispers, his heart breaking as he says it. It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.

They're silent until Janet rings the bell, Steve is barely able to pay attention as the session moves on. He’s overwhelmed by how surreal this all is. He’s considering what would happen if he’d told Tony that it wasn't an act, that he meant it. The pain in his chest is heavy, but it gives him something to focus on, something that isn't Tony, leaning back on his chair and doing a great impression of someone interested in what Janet is sayng.

After three months of this, it’s almost over, and Steve can’t bear the thought of letting it pass. He thinks of how foolish he was, all this time, pretending that he didn’t feel anything, just because it was safer that way.

The session ends with Janet telling them to go for a walk, giving them all time alone to talk about their “exercise in intimacy.” The irony isn’t lost on Steve.

Tony tugs him out of the room, hand on Steve’s wrist.

Steve’s desperately trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to figure out how to confess everything in a way that makes sense. Or at least in a way that will make Tony consider, in the same way Steve did when he first saw pictures of them together, that they’d be good together.

Tony’s hand has moved from his wrist, and he tightens his grip on Steve’s palm. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Steve blinks and feels like he’s been caught.

“I—” he starts, wishing he had more time, that he’d thought about this sooner. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Tony furrows his brows at Steve. “Thankfully we’ve been given half an hour just to do that,” he says, a crooked smile on his lips.

“I meant about after all this,” Steve says, unable to keep how annoyed he feels from his tone. He can’t handle Tony being glib at a time like this, when he’s about to pour his heart out.

Of course, it’s not like Tony knows, which is the trouble.

“What about it?” Tony asks, looking a bit concerned now.

Steve opens his mouth to answer, to say: _I don’t want to stop, I want, I want—_

Then, of course, in keeping with the cosmic joke God insists on playing, that’s when they hear screams.

* * *

* * *

Tony is pale, and he smiles up at Steve from the worn down mat on the floor when Steve finally busts through the door.

“Well, someone’s impatient,” he says, voice rough. “I was a day away from breaking out of here.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, equal parts angry and relieved. He tucks his arm under Tony’s shoulder and lifts him up.

Tony’s hand flies to his chest as he gets vertical, and Steve remembers with a jolt that he’d nearly crushed the reactor in his hands three days ago. He looks down and sees a faint, circular outline through Tony’s shirt. “Tony—” he says, leaning Tony against his chest as he lifts up Tony’s shirt to check.

He catches a glimpse of copper bands wrapped around a pale blue ring before Tony bats his hands away and pulls down his shirt. “Let’s just get out of here and then I’ll deal with it,” he says, sounding out of breath.

“Okay,” Steve says. “I got you,” he adds, practically carrying Tony towards the door.

In his comm, Natasha confirms that it’s all clear.

“Easier if you just carry me,” Tony murmurs, somehow still finding it in himself to joke at a time like this. It makes Steve want to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake. “Give everyone something to talk about.”

Steve clenches his jaw. Tony’s right. It’s annoying when Tony’s right.

“You being alive is plenty to talk about,” Steve says, bending down to carry Tony properly.

“My hero,” Tony sighs, resting his head on Steve’s chest. His breath is warm against Steve’s neck, and Steve tries to fight against the base instinct of cradling Tony closer, because now isn’t the time.

(It’s never the time, his brain supplies, unhelpfully.)

“Tower first,” Tony croaks out, when they finally get into the quinjet. “Reactor,” he explains, before passing out.

Steve sighs and rubs his eyes.

“Alright?” Natasha asks.

“Will be once we land.”

“Go on, sit beside him.”

“Natasha—”

She looks at him, unimpressed. Steve opens his mouth to say more, but she shoos him away from her. He finally gives in to himself and rests his hand on top of Tony’s. He wants to do a proper pat down, see if anything’s broken or sprained, but it seems a bit too much to do while Tony’s asleep. For now, Steve finds some comfort in Tony’s pulse, beating slow under his palm.

The others agree to go ahead to the debrief, leaving Steve to aid Tony towards the workshop. Steve has a feeling that they’d planned it, which brings a small smile to his lips.

Tony’s still standing a little unsteadily, and Steve keeps his hand on the small of Tony’s back.

“Need to get this out of me,” Tony grumbles, punching in his code.

“I’m glad to have you back, sir,” JARVIS says, tone something close to relief.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna need the—you know,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “Got this piece of garbage in my chest.”

Somewhere within the workshop something whizzes. Steve helps Tony lie down on the couch, and then Dum-E rolls over and beeps.

In his claw is an arc reactor, similar to the one Steve’s seen up close before, and looking much cleaner than what Steve had seen earlier.

“Gonna need you to,” Tony says, shifting to lift up his shirt. Steve lets out a small breath before helping Tony take it off. This is _really_ not the time for that. “Okay, there. Just.”

Tony inhales deeply, as if readying himself. In his chest is a mess of exposed wires—copper bands and metal—and in the middle, a familiar blue glow. Tony fumbles for a moment, fingers pressing against the circumference of the reactor, then turns. He hisses when the reactor _snicks,_ then he lifts it gingerly up and out of his chest.

“What—wait. What is happening,” Steve says, realization dawning on him. Fear drops like a stone in his belly. “I—Tony, wait.”

“It’s easy,” Tony says, voice strained. “Just gonna—” and to emphasize his point, the reactor comes fully out of his chest with a _pop_. “You’re gonna wanna take that from…”

Steve scrambles, takes the new reactor from Dum-E. “Now very carefully, just—reach in with that wire and click it into place.”

Steve takes a steadying breath. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Tony.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “You’ve got such big hands, Steve.”

“Better for me to choke you with, for making me worry like that,” Steve says darkly as he continues to grope around the cavity in Tony’s chest. He tries not to dwell on that too much.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when the wire connects.

“So you _did_ worry,” Tony says, sounding smug. He takes the reactor from Steve’s hand and slots it into place.

“Yeah,” Steve says. He looks up to see if Tony’s looking at him, and he’s surprised by the emotion in Tony’s gaze. “Of course I worried,” he murmurs.

Tony hums in response.

It’s only now that the adrenaline truly wears off, and that look Tony’s giving him, that Tony’s here, _alive_. It’s too much—vaguely, Steve feels like he wants to cry. It’s not something he’s felt often.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Tony,” Steve whispers, looking back at the reactor in Tony’s chest. He reaches up and brushes his fingers against it, because he’s probably allowed to, since he helped put it in and everything—

“My eyes are up here,” Tony teases, but his voice is softer, too.

“I know,” he says. He can’t seem to bring himself to meet Tony’s gaze just yet. There are too many emotions roiling inside him: relief, fear, gratitude, love. _Love_.

“Steve?” Tony rests his palm on top of Steve’s. Very faintly, he can feel Tony’s heartbeat under his palm.

He takes a deep breath. For all those weeks, all those dreams, he’d never imagined this. Being in the workshop with Tony, Tony’s heart humming under his fingers. He wishes he dreamt of _this_ moment, maybe that way he’d have had some practice.

“I never want to lose you,” Steve admits, finally. He takes another steadying breath, then cups Tony’s jaw with his other hand.

Tony’s fingers tighten around his. “You never have.”

Steve smiles down at Tony, tips his chin up, and kisses him.

A beat passes. Long enough for Steve to worry if he’s misread the situation, but thankfully, _miraculously_ , Tony kisses back.

“I want you to know,” Steve says, pulling away just enough to get the words out. “That I mean it when I say I love you.”

Tony grins, and pulls Steve back into a kiss.

* * *

They're sitting on the balcony adjacent to the helipad again.

Tony's spent the past few days in bed, reluctantly catching up on sleep. His complexion is better, no longer as pallid as he was when they found him. Still, there's a wound above his eyebrow that's still healing, and his knuckles are still bruised.

Steve drinks in the sight of him—Tony's eyes closed and face turned towards the sun, a small smile on his lips. It's still so new to Steve, being allowed to do this, to appreciate Tony without having to pretend that he doesn't mean it. It's so new, how when Tony reaches over blindly to tangle his fingers with Steve's, there's a strange flutter that winds its way through Steve's chest.

It's all so new, being in love and being permitted to say it.

"I can feel you staring," Tony says accusingly, but it's undercut by the smile on his lips.

Steve laughs, raises Tony's hands to his lips. He turns Tony's hand over and presses a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist. He keeps his lips there for a second, and can't tell if the heartbeat he feels is Tony's or his own.

"Want me to stop?"

Tony blinks his eyes open. "Never."


End file.
